Knight Secrets

by C. C. Wiley

  The amber glow of one small candle in the middle of the table did little to improve the light. The flickering shadows kept the room’s inhabitants concealed in the shadows. Ranulf scanned the group of men. Some were familiar to the royal courts. Others were not. ’Twas a rarity for the brotherhood to meet together. Over the years, he had learned to recognize the voices and faces of fellow brothers. The others would remain unknown to him until the time came for personal contact.

  Ranulf passed a thumb over his ring before placing a fisted hand on the table for all to see. He watched as each member brought out his own talisman. Whether simple or elaborate—an embroidered patch, a ring, a brooch, or a dagger from the Holy Land encrusted with an emerald—each bore the symbol of the swan. Ranulf noted there were a few missing. Logistics, ongoing missions, or death was the only explanation for their absence. Rarely did a man retire from the brotherhood.

  King Henry’s mother, Mary de Bohun, understood the intricacies of the royal court. Before her death, when Henry was still a child, Mary had gathered those she trusted to watch over her children. Using the emblem passed down through the de Bohun family, the swan had begun to appear in various ways. The first of them was Mary’s silver ring, created with the tips of a swan’s wings entwined, the head tucked in with a small emerald that winked from time to time.

  When contact was required, the message for swans was passed. Many times, growing up, he and the young Prince of Wales had used this as a means to send their own private messages to each other. Ranulf often wondered if Mary de Bohun had intended for this band to continue once Henry sat upon the throne. Of course, given the circumstances, she could not have foreseen her son would one day be king. Born as a means to protect her son, the Knights of the Swan now stood in service as the king’s secret guard.

  A faceless brother leaned toward the center of the table. He kept his voice low as he peered into his mug of ale. “’Tis certain. One of our own intends to end England’s claim to the French shores by cutting off England’s head.” He turned with a grunt. “A true pity you failed to find the bastard.”

  Ranulf stiffened, fighting the urge to rub the aching scar at his temple. Annoyance at his failure to locate the Margraves escalated with each moment. Not one among the handful of Margrave servants could tell him what he needed to know. Although the old woman had said the plague had taken most of the people, he had his doubts. His knuckles whitened. He would know the truth soon enough.

  “Maintain watch,” the brother said, pointing a finger in Ranulf’s direction. “Wait for the vermin to slither out of their holes.”

  Ranulf uncurled his fist, wrapping it around his mug. “The devils will have their heads impaled on pikes before they see their foul plan through.”

  Impatient to be off and about his task, he shifted his gaze over the small group. Their allegiance to King Henry and England strengthened their resolve to do whatever it took to protect the Swan.

  Chapter 2

  Clarice stood inside the main hall as little tremors took possession of her legs, her spine. She gripped her elbows. The life she had known, torn asunder by uncaring destriers’ hooves and accusations of treason by King Henry’s demon, no longer existed.

  Lord Ranulf. That name was seared into her memory. He was the one who had led the charge against her home, sentencing her family to destruction. His voice had been muffled by the visor and might be difficult to recognize should she hear it again, but the rest of him she would recognize anywhere. Of that she had no doubt.

  Nearly a week had passed since the soldiers had carried away anything of value from Margrave Manor. Maud had set fire to the mixture of soiled linens, rancid tallow, and the latrine chute’s refuse, keeping her safe from the soldiers. Surrounded by the stench of death and the possibility of plague, they had steered clear of the tower. Instead, they’d made use of their time, destroying whatever they touched. Thanks be to the saints, they had left Maud unmolested and refrained from burning the buildings and fields to the ground.

  Clarice dug her nails into her elbows. Maud may have protected her from the king’s men, but watching the soldiers lead the servants away had left her with a gnawing ache of helplessness. She prayed for their souls and that God would watch over them. And cursed the king’s devil who had destroyed her home.

  The cold stone of the hall seeped through her clothing, burrowing its way into her back. A gentle breeze caught the lingering scent of Maud’s inventive use of the latrine chute and a torch. It had taken the better part of a day to remove the smell from the keep. Mayhap in time, it, too, would fade with the memory of seeing her home invaded.

  Tears filled her eyes. The last few days had taken their toll, the heartache too much to bear. Dragging in a raw breath, her chest shuddered under the weight. With the new day came more trouble. Saints help me, my family has returned.

  Today, at the break of dawn, Robert had charged through the unguarded gates on his stallion. The horse’s ribs heaved as it fought the excessive sawing of the reins. Her stepbrother’s coal-black hair glistened under the sunrise as he stood on the stirrups, scanning the bailey and buildings. Snarling when no one ran from the stable to offer aid, he tore off his leather gloves and tossed them to the ground.

  Soon after, a carriage had rattled over the bridge. At first she had not recognized her father, Lord Nicholas Margrave. His clothing and hair disheveled, he sat upon the box instead of riding his prized horse. Utilized as a packhorse, Buttercup trotted alongside, looking miserable and weary. When the horses stopped, her stepmother, Lady Annora, pulled back the curtain and stared up at the tower.

  Clarice shuddered at the memory of the disapproval written upon their faces. Their piercing gazes had searched the shadows from which she had watched them cross into the bailey.

  The family had been in residence for a few hours and already the air in the main hall throbbed with fear and outrage. “Christ’s blood,” she muttered. “I’d rather be left alone to grow old in this musty manor then spend another moment with my . . . family.”

  * * *

  Ranulf peered over the boulder. Margrave Manor was little more than a bailey and keep. Decaying vegetation filled the moat. Empty fields lay fallow from neglect. The large, dirty gray structure stood as a crumbling effigy of the past. ’Twas as if Nicholas wanted to forget it existed.

  King Henry’s men had taken over where the Margraves left off and made the manor uninhabitable. Remnants of the garden lay trampled by hooves. The portcullis remained raised. Fragments of the main gate hung in ragged angles, rendering Margrave’s country manor defenseless.

  Ranulf offered up a curse against Lord Nicholas Margrave and his family. It had not been his intention to visit the English countryside twice in less than a week. Yet his duty was clear. He would expose those who wove the threads of this latest plot against his king. He was certain others were involved. He could feel it in his bones. All who were a part of this ill-gotten plan would suffer. As a knight of the Swan, he had vowed to protect the king or die.

  A movement amid the trampled vegetation caught his eye. A young woman strode along a stone path leading to the tower. Her arms were wrapped around her waist, exposing the gentle curves of her body. The flow of raven hair swayed in rhythm with her hips.

  “Hello, mysterious lady. Who might you be?” he whispered. “I wonder how you slipped past our search.”

  In truth, the report of a deadly pestilence had caused the men to move more swiftly than usual, cutting short their visit. His frown deepened. She moved down the path with ease and did not show signs of illness. He knew he should have insisted on another sweep of the manor before they left. “Plague.” He gave a derisive snort. “Indeed.”

  He edged closer to get a better view. The maiden paused in front of the tower entrance, looked around furtively, then slipped through the doorway before he could see her face.

  “God’s bones,” he muttered. “I wager ’tis Robert’s latest conquest.” He could not comprehend the depths of their idi
ocy. Despite the young Margrave’s infamous reputation, the women of the court continued to throw their virtue at the man’s feet.

  He tore his thoughts from the woman and continued to watch the bailey.

  “So, they have all come home to roost, have they?” Ranulf slid his hand through his tangled crop of hair. The thought of Robert of Margrave set his teeth on edge. The man was annoying, like flies lured in by a dung heap. But Nicholas Margrave’s treachery against King Henry would not be ignored. Justice must be served.

  His focus narrowed. The air crackled, charged with the sensation felt right before a heavy storm. “’Tis time to draw them out. Then wring their fool necks.”

  Determined to uncover what he needed and return to the Cock’s Inn before nightfall, Ranulf hitched up the baggy tights he had borrowed from a fat peddler and led the horse and cart toward the manor.

  * * *

  Clarice clutched the skirt of her woolen gown and strode up the narrow tower stairway. The urge to scream out her frustrations boiled in her empty stomach. She slammed the chamber door shut. Birds nesting under the eaves shot into the sky.

  After all these years, she had come to accept that her stepmother and stepbrother did not love her. She had convinced herself that her father cared for her in his own way. But with the gloomy days came the unrelenting voice in her head that would not be quiet. Why did they hide her away in the country? Robert was wrong. She did not carry a soul of violence. So then why lock me away where they could forget me?

  The desire to know a better life, where she was truly loved, whispered in her heart. Try as she might, the ache to experience life beyond the Margrave walls refused to be ignored. But a woman alone, without money or protection, would not survive for long. At least she knew this demon. Soon her stepbrother and stepmother would leave. And so would Father.

  She clutched her stomach. What a wretched fool I am. How could I forget about his troubles?

  There had to be a way to prove his innocence.

  Maud hobbled into the chambers. She stood in the center of the room, her grizzled hair loosened from the ever-tidy bun, her hands hidden under her apron. “My lady—”

  “Whatever is the matter, Maud?”

  “Someone comes.”

  Chapter 3

  “The king’s men?” Clarice forced down the panic clawing its Tway up her throat.

  “A peddler. See here,” Maud pointed her gnarled finger out the chamber window. “His cart is fair to heaping with all manner of supplies. He nearly scared my hair to white when I saw him standing there. Not a sound was a’ comin’ from him or his horse. ’Tis like he’s an archangel sent from heaven.”

  “Don’t forget, Lucifer once held a place in heaven, too.” Clarice glanced down at the man. He led his cart past the point where once their gateman had stood sentry. Thanks to the king’s wrath, there was no one left to guard the entrance. Not that there was anything left of value anyway.

  “Do you recognize him?” she asked. “He might be one of the king’s men in disguise. Lady Annora was certain they were followed.”

  “No.” Maud peered around her. “Looks like Fat Thomas’s mare pulls the cart, but I’ve never seen that peddler before.” She wedged her body near the window. “Hmm. Fat Thomas never cut a figure such as that.”

  “And how would you know of Fat Thomas’s figure?” Clarice pressed.

  A rosy blush crept up Maud’s neck. “Mayhap the peddler heard of your family’s misfortune,” she said, ignoring the question.

  Clarice frowned. “We’ve never had peddlers venture this way before.” When he looked up, she snapped back out of sight. Careful to keep hidden, she watched him caress the animal’s neck. He was unusually tall, with broad shoulders. The hood of his voluminous cloak covered most of his face.

  A gust of wind caught the edges of the head covering, revealing a hint of bronze-colored hair. He caught the hood and tugged it forward. Despite his lowly position of peddler, he boldly continued to gaze at her window.

  “He’s a persistent one.” Clarice smiled at Maud. “Do you think Father and the others are done shouting and are aware someone has entered our gates?”

  “I fear it ’twould not be my place to say, my lady.”

  “Mayhap, I . . . we . . . should go down to speak to him. I hid a few coins under my pillow. ’Twould be a blessing to have a morsel or two to stave off our hunger.” Clarice hesitated. “I suppose since my stepmother is in residence, she should be the one to barter with him.”

  “’Tis not for me to judge,” Maud said, turning to smooth the thin bedding over the mattress.

  Clarice rested her hands on her hips. “Since when has that stopped you?”

  Her servant and friend gave an indignant huff. “Lady Annora may be my master’s wife, but in my heart ’tis you who is the lady of Margrave Manor. I’d rather take my orders from you.”

  “Hush! You best not let her hear you.” Clarice checked to see if the peddler remained below. He rewarded her with a slight nod of his head. Spreading out his hands, he motioned to the cart. “It appears the stranger intends to stand there until someone comes out to speak with him.”

  “’Tis a certainty.”

  “If we go quietly we might convince him to part with something.” Clarice grimaced. “If we hurry, we’ll agree on a fair price before Annora steps in and causes us to pay more than we should.”

  A growl emanated deep within the empty cavern of Clarice’s stomach. She must hurry before the peddler turned away from the household. “Maud, you don’t need to go down there. Stay here. Save your joints.”

  “Forgive me for reminding you yet again,” Maud said, catching Clarice’s wrist. “But remember that no outsiders are to know you are the lord’s daughter. Promise me you’ll at least keep your face covered.” Her hold tightened. “Swear it.”

  Clarice nodded and blew out the candle. She caught up the cloak hanging from a peg. Her shadow danced crazily as she raced down the stairs, then came to a skidding halt.

  With the hood of her cloak positioned to keep her identity concealed, she pulled her shoulders back, straightening her stance. Raising her chin, she called out, “You there. Stay where you are.”

  The peddler bowed, touching his forelock in respect. Though he kept his head lowered, his gaze traveled up her plain homespun skirt to the edge of her cloak. She gripped the hood to keep her face hidden.

  “Mistress? Forgive me. I heard the manor might ’ave need o’ supplies.” His deep voice resonated with power.

  “Yes.” Jumping as a crash erupted from the main hall, she turned, her stomach pitching. “We must make haste,” she said, taking a step closer.

  Lady Annora marched down the steps. Her stout body pumped across the bailey, her ample breasts straining against the material, threatening to escape the gown’s bodice. Robert strode by her side. Their outraged voices carried on the evening air.

  “Who is she speaking to?” Annora clutched at Robert’s arm. “She knows never to speak with strangers.”

  “I don’t know, Mother,” he said. “She needs someone to take a hand to her.”

  Clarice glanced at the peddler. She flinched as her stepmother continued to blather on. “Grain,” Clarice said, raising her voice. Saints, but she did not want her faults aired within the stranger’s hearing. “And meat.”

  “What, mistress?” the peddler asked, distracted by the spectacle.

  Determined to have something in her stomach that eve, Clarice hurried toward the cart, calling out as she neared, “Grain. Eggs. If you please.”

  “Hold! You there. Peddler,” Annora said, her pudgy hands fisted on her rounded hips. “I am lady of this manor.”

  Robert came up from behind Clarice, wrapping his arm around her waist. “Mayhap we should let her deal with the peddler, Mother. ’Tis clear she’s eager to serve.”

  Clarice ground her back teeth, fighting the urge to elbow him in the stomach. She dared not lose her opportunity to gather foodstuffs for Maud.

/>   Her stepbrother let her go with a shove and her braid swung out from between the folds of the cloak. She stumbled before the peddler caught her, righting her balance.

  “Best be careful, m’ lady,” the peddler whispered.

  Clarice’s skin warmed where he touched her waist. She ducked her head, keeping her face covered with the cloak. “My th-thanks, kind sir.”

  Robert slid beside his mother. He lifted her hand, letting it rest in the crook of his arm. “My lady, ’tis obvious we’ve interrupted a clandestine meeting among the servants.” Bending a deep bow, he turned. “I fancy a haunch of salted beef or pork. See what you can work out with the man.” He flipped a single coin to the peddler. “This should take care of her inadequacies.”

  Clarice’s face heated from his verbal slap. To her dismay, the peddler followed the arc of the glittering coin before giving chase. She had hoped him cut from a different cloth. Does no one have honor? Does it even exist?

  In an exaggerated leap, he reached and missed. Stumbling in his efforts, he narrowly missed falling into Robert and Annora and had barely righted himself before receiving their first wave of tongue-lashings. His busy hands dusted the young lord’s tights. While they were still in a jumble, he continued to scrape an awkward bow, offering his apologies, and cracked Robert in the jaw with the back of his head.

  Tangled in Annora’s skirts, Robert teetered and fell with a dull thump. A muffled groan erupted from where he sat in the dirt.

  A bubble of laughter leaked through before Clarice could cover her mouth. She cleared her throat before another burst forth.

  The peddler kept his head down in deference and held out his hand. “Terribly sorry, m’ lord.”

  Robert swatted at the help and scuttled out of reach. “Hold, you lumbering ox.”

  “Enough,” Father shouted, striding toward them.

  Maud followed close behind. Her little feet flew across the trampled grass.